


Spoils of the French

by Neji



Category: Naruto
Genre: AU, Eloping, France (Country), M/M, NaruSasu - Freeform, Running Away, french au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-26
Updated: 2013-07-26
Packaged: 2017-12-21 11:25:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/899735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neji/pseuds/Neji
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>surely to elope with one another across the globe from Japan to France means the the two are well aware of their love. However, the transition from friends to lovers is not a smooth one. It must have been the spoils of the French; the strawberries in his belly, the red-wine on his lips; but he felt confident.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spoils of the French

Spoils of the French

France always held a romantic air underneath the dazzles dotted across the blackness; the luminous sphere lighting the way for fellow travellers. The fireflies dance with each other more divinely, more provocatively as they twine and curl in the wind, more so than any other fireflies I've seen in any other country- or France's own in the dimming dusk light. I think it is more the fact France is associated with passion than actual romance tinting the air; not that my life is without much passion or eroticism, despite my status as a virgin with no past lovers to reminisce of- I can easily say I wish, yearn for my current romantic affairs to hush and restrain themselves, for I feel my heart is to jump from my broad chest at the nearest favourable circumstance. I am not in an affair as such; a relationship it can barely be labelled and it may seem that as a young adult I would wish for such an amorous and wanton feeling to overcast me- or overtake me, so I may feel the experience of older and mature men- but I want nothing more than for my frantic mind and heart to agree on the personified beauty lying on my tartan blanket on the dry French grass next to me; eyes fluttering like delicate butterfly wings in the warm summer air that cocooned him in heat as he sleeps.

I allow my thoughts to become wonderful; I ponder if he can too feel the desire-filled air between and around us like the French climate; the wistful and arduous agony of pure and frenzied desire almost tangible between our barely-touching bodies. Do not portray me wrong; I am no common whore looking for warmth between the sheets; I hope for this man as he is; asleep next to me, showing his perfection in his imperfections- showing the tainted soul he is, has been moulded into. Such passion I feel to reach out and touch his calm face! To feel his pearled skin on my own contrasting, but it may be just the spoils of the French coursing through my veins.

I tell myself this: the spoils of the French –the Spanish, the Dutch- but these are what I feel in any place. Every destination and every time has the same rigid, toilsome emotions that toy with my soul; like many rooms in a dollhouse, and I am the doll. The house is the ever-serious ache of thirst and the rooms are various degrees and forms of love I feel. For one instant I wish to hold and hug him like a brother—discuss things like we once did as children and touch amongst each other freely. But then in the next; as though being dragged into the next room by a playing child (or whomever plays the game) I wish to feel him underneath me, writhing and calling out for me as I do internally at moments like these.

It may be the strawberries nestled in my full stomach; from fields passed this afternoon. I stole several berries as we walked in the summer crops and brushed through the farmers produce until my companion hit me upside my blonde head- causing the fruit to lodge itself uncomfortably in my throat; demolishing my appetite for food and conversation.

Perhaps it is the cheap French wine I stole from a passing woman's shopping bag as she trotted away from me. A common thief you must see me as- but I care little for the opinions of those I steal from, since they did not offer me their bread when I begged in hunger once. I had run with my pale accomplice until I believed us safe; all through the heated morning until we reached the fruited fields- and now here. The bottle of red liquid provided odd and unfamiliar warmth; one not need in such humid French atmosphere, even at night.

I felt the bottle in my left hand as I lay on my back; my red and green patterned blanket below us that I had spread to stop the raw straw and dry crop from our hair. It is slightly rough from years of use and its age, but covered the prickled grass from scratching out skin. The bottle is half empty, and the onslaught of its dim symptoms is spreading through my body like a forest fire as the crimson elixir pumped in my blood and added to my confidence to act upon my internal strife; would he reject me? Does he too, feel this drama? And crave to act as I?

It is so counterproductive to lay so close to him (although, we are miles apart); feel the minimal heat that can be felt in this hot climate that is seeping through his dirtied clothes and resting against my bare chest. He looks so vulnerable as he sleeps; he is tired form our running, or he would have felt my heated gaze on him. His noble legs cannot stand such strain so suddenly, and I'm sure he struggles with the loss of his brother. Perhaps he may allow me to touch him today- since he slumbers so deeply. I am overwhelmed with the urge to lay my hands on him as I glance upon his gracefully peaceful, pale and elegant face. His dark locks trap his pearly cheeks in a frame (for my admiration), and they have grown longer than they were once due to lack of cutting on our journeys; it once held protruding spikes from the back like thousands of knifes; or as I tormented as a child, a ducks behind. But because of the several weeks we have been travelling it has grown barely past his shoulders in a weight of raven-black.

I wish to move said hair; to brush is from his fluttering lashes and then take a piece, twirl it into a brush and trace his sharp features—his jaw, nose and cheek bones until he grows angry with me.

I reach over, placing the bottle on its side without much thought to its contents the old woman must be missing (but none seeped since it was quite empty), and out of pure instinct –as always- I allowed my fingers to trace the sharp point of his shoulders. For a moment everything was as it should be; our contrasting flesh against one another (although the sleeve of the navy-blue shirt stopping half my hand experiencing this) and bolts of pure euphoric bliss passing thought my hand and up my spine. My digits move to stroke down his pale arm, his skin looking as though it has never been blessed by the sun even though we spent hours a day in the light (even now); I make to link hands, because I would settle for such a simple gesture, and I feel he thinks I only care for one thing.

But then it happened, as it always did.

The same change of events- how could I have ever been as naïve to believe it would happen differently because of the strawberries in my belly, or the wine on my lips?

He flinches, not a word of protest as his lithe and elegant body jolts away from me as though I were a flame. Such rejections and refusal should have killed me; but I have grown callous to such a thing now. I persist- as always- so that he may grow angry since I find fantastic enjoyment in his heated face and sloppy actions that occur during his torment-induced rage. My fingers touch his long hair; it clings to my hard digits as though it wants my hand there, rebelling against its master. I roll to my side- my wide shoulders propping me up like an easel so I may use my left hand to caress his beauty and my right to hold me up; so I may gaze to my hearts easy content.

He shudders -not from things I wish- snapping his head forward and his neck strains; I could see the bones in it far more prominent than they should be for our gently age of nineteen. They cracked in protest- the loud and moist click releasing him from the clutches of slumber and allowing a deep groan to pass into the air from his curled throat. His body shuffled to face me; already wide awake with his quick reflexes. He said nothing as he stood, and turned to me again.

A pleasant hum flushed me accompanied by the courage in the wine as his charcoal eyes gazed upon me; his dirtied clothes rumpled from sleep, and such passionate disgust from being touched by my hand painted on his marble features. Cold echoed in his black jewels; swirling in pure repulse. My blood pulsed in anxiety, the feel of pushing too far. _Why must we be like this?_

It was too late for me to realise those words had been spoken from my lips; passing through them with ease. I called it with such confidence it shocked me- my coarse voice cocky with red liquid and the lingering warmth from our touch. I tried to seem as though I was not troubled by my own thoughtlessness and allowed a grin to plague my features, as a scowl did his. I had seen him smile once as we were children playing in his mother's vegetable fields. It did not fit such a serious face- even at the tender age we were. It still perplexes me how a child's face can be so solemn that when a smile arises it is not welcome in the scowls place.

"We shall be as you and I like, now up with you."

I stand; his deep voice coursing through me for a moment before it left me cold. I picked up our blanket and heard the bottle and it remnants flying thought the air and onto the tall, dry grass around us with a loud and painfully unwelcome noise; arousing a jump from my partner (if such a phrase may be applied).

"It is not how I want it," I venture, bravery laced in my voice; twirling with accusation in his eardrums. He flinches at the implications of my statement, and it is a lost cause to expect answer from him now. I occupy myself with folding the blanket; holding it to my chest since I expect he will not offer his services. Silence surrounds us- and then something that has never happened before, suddenly curses our routine.

But I welcome it.

A shaky hand presses to my shoulder, hesitant to touch my bare chest so boldly; he must have moved over to me as I busied myself. Moving elegantly, yet one leg before the other like everyone else must. He doesn't move his hand, to pat or stoke; just holds it to my skin and I can feel the beads of sweat collecting on his palm. I stare at it; admiring the shock of white and brown; so outstanding. I presume he does not know what to do, since a minute passes and he still stands still- face a portrait of shock and fear, although it is only his eyes that bleed these feelings. I can read him unlike any other- since I am the only one who has been next to him for as long as I promised.

I promised eternity, and I intend to keep that agreement (as silent as it may continue to be).

His mouth strains to say something; but I do not rush him as he thinks over his speech. Silent torture takes us for a moment as his fine lips open and closed to an unknown rhythm. I wait; sudden patience my mother and Papa had failed to teach me as I grew to eight, before they passed. I take a moment to relish in the fact he may teach me these skills so easily and unwillingly, and yet it still takes my accomplices and teachers many moons just to keep me silent on my schooling chair.

Or rather, it did.

He withdraws his hand and, with bold stupidity, I take it in my own; my large appendage drowning his own. His hands look like woman's; not scarred or burned like my own, from the labour I have done. I was the gardener at his family's estate since I was eleven; after I finished school because my parent's money could only pay for three years after they died. It does not pain me to think of my life anymore; since I have one many girls in our village wish for, swoon for.

"Let go of me!" he shouts in our native Japanese; anger flaring in his cheeks and eyes. He gasps at his own outburst, and it makes my stomach bubble when I realise he too shouts and speaks without thought around me. "I said, release me." He repeats, in a more collected manner. He allows the words and vowels to be savoured on his pink tongue whilst he speaks them- and closes his eyes in expectant snobbery.

"No, bastard-" the familiar childhood nickname rolls through my mouth on reflex after several years of calling him by it; why, I've forgotten, but he is not without his share of insults to me "-what were you gonna' say?"

My speech is not as practiced as his own; I admit, he has been trained and I have not. My Papa was a well-spoken man, a governor, who married a peasant woman (resulting in income from many relatives to be ceased) of whom I have learnt my tongue from. I have no pressure to speak as my accomplice; but he has the same motivation to relax his own dialect.

"I was to say nothing, release me now!" he flails his slender wrist like a trapped cat unable to remove its paw from a mouse trap. I resist chuckling as he pulls back with his body weight, trying to out-weigh my strength. The years gardening and ploughing had been kind to my growing body; I lived on fish and rice, providing protein and so my muscles grew and I became as tall as my Papa—now I stood a head above my pale accomplice easily, and my body rippled with the spoils of hard labour.

Although, women never seemed to find a peasant-worker of any interest, and several crushes I had once held became possible marriage-candidates for my pale friend, even as we grew into young adults and my female-romantic interest lessoned, he still collected them all from me. He himself was not interested, and I suspected I may have been a subject of his affections.

I still think he holds something for me, or he would not have run away with me.

I was so lost in thought I did not realise he had been struggling from me; trying to relieve his skin of my touch. I gripped harder, enough to bruise as my body; filled with wine and strawberries, reacted on my desires behalf. We tumbled; like a bird falling from the sky as a hunter shoots it down, onto the dry grass. My blanket, folded to my best abilities, landed next to our aching bodies as we hit the ground with undeniable force.

He called out as his slender, almost effeminate body was crushed beneath my heavy weight; his voice shrill and ill-contained. I pinned his wrist as best I could above his flowing raven strands as they spread beneath his head; providing a pillow for their master. Unfortunately my slightly hazy mind could not comprehend that he may have far better reflexes than my own; and of course, a free hand.

It lashed across my face like a whip; far more painful than any I had felt, and I had received my fair share of flogs as I grew; my scarred back a display of my torment. However, I hope he has looked upon them, the thick and raised lines marring my once clear and virgin-skinned back; and feels guilt, since I was whipped for my time-wasting with the youngest son of the Uchiha-nobility, himself.

I fumbled for a moment; mentally comprehending my injury, but he struck me again; this time with his foot as it connected with my shin; the rough leather of his riding-boots (the only boots, he said, he owned brittle enough to survive our elopement) scraping my bone under my tanned legs. I growled aloud like a dog in heat as his body writhed and wriggled beneath me for escape; my brown workers trousers loose enough to accommodate the sudden growth in my crotch.

Soon, however, I found myself being turned as his miraculous brain thought out a new plan to release my encumbrance of weight from his body. He straddled me shamelessly; tight black trousers twisting around his gentle and slight hips as he made to stand above me. I jumped at the chance to keep him against me so intimately; he was so wanton, sitting upon my growing body so boldly like a lover in the night for me. If it were not for the stars behind his head I would have not seen his hair; and his eyes would have looked like simple wholes; a gateway to the sky above us. My free hand clamped viciously on his waist (I noted how I tucked in more with his adulthood) as I admired the ominous glow his skin adopted in the light of the half-lit moon.

I released his wrist (our sweaty skin peeling like tree bark) to lay my hand on his flat stomach; to run my fingers in the short and curled hairs I knew descended from his belly button to his length; my mouth watering as I thought of it. However, he did not miss the opportunity and harshly ripped into my hair and scrunched the long coarse strands so my head jerked back; my teeth gnashed together, clenching and scraping as pain ran through me. My scalp is a sensitive area, and I hoped he would abuse it in pleasure; not pain.

"Let go of me idiot!"

Such ferocity! He is so wild, passionate when angered! How much I wish to hold him to me but my grip faltered under the harsh actions he inflicted; and soon he was standing above me. Panting, although not from the same cause as I, and tapping his foot as though it was me causing this problem.

I stood, and we made our way down towards the dusty path we had strayed from on our journey, blanket in hand. My raven snarled as I walked close to him, and rubbed the forming bruise on his wrist.

x x x 

The days continued as always, we marched. The French air cooled as September approached, the blue air dimming to grey and clouds forming above our heads; dancing with each other in the quickening breath of the world. French is harder to pick up; my accomplice was already fluent, and so I allowed him to dominate in the few conversations we held with locals on the country path. Soon we came across a small town; not grand in any way but its modesty. I found three English pennies I had once forgotten (since we have not sailed to England in several weeks) in my pocket as we walked through the towns market square ruled by peasant markets and fabric shops.

Then It glimmered at me from the window, invited me to present it to my love interest, and so I plucked the coins from my workers-trousers without my companion noticing, and made a bargain with a passing man to exchange my pennies for whatever money they trade in this tiny town.

It was easy to relieve myself of his company; since I had a plan for the night. I sent him to find a field; not a particularly fancy field, but a warm one for us to lay that night. _"I don't see what's wrong with the ground, you were always a pauper."_ He stated, and I shoved him forward since I knew it made him move; his stubborn personality will be the death of me one day.

A French coin will get you far in this country (and I held three), it was easy to bargain my way to an inn room in the centre of town for a single coin. Buying the glinting present in the window I had passed was not so easy; and took several bargains before we agreed on the one penny, since no one in the town wanted to own it and not many people visit this secluded paradise, if I am so bold as to label it as that.

The kind woman, face wrinkled with the lines of life and labour, wrapped the gift with her own steady and withering hands in front of me in simple red paper. I knew only the French for red, or I would have gotten orange. I held the gift to my chest as I bowed deeply to her; her lined face faltering at my strange Japanese customs and vibrant blonde hair that flapped in front of my dazzled blue eyes.

I ran like a madman through the town, arriving at the inn in a matter of seconds and bolting up the stairs with far too ungraceful steps that made several rotting boards of stairway creak in their protests.

But he was already there, and I was caught.

He sat on the beach-wood bed, the red blankets bright against his dark complexion and moon skin. A vague thought passed through my head that I should never underestimate his genius mind; the way it works like a clock, consistent and quick, and brilliant. He tapped his foot –as always- as he waited my arrival.

"New travels fast in a place like this."

Ah, so the town's people spoke of our arrival. "And?" I stated childishly, relieved when his stomach lurched with contained laughter.

"And the news had reached me fast."

"Like home?"

His beautiful face contorts into a snarl as he spits his words; "home?" He breaths, yet it sounds more forced than anything. He stands; hands bunched at his side and crimson sheets slightly shuffled by his minor weight. Stalking towards me with the grace of a feline, yet the ferocity of a wolf; he snarled as he lashed out for me and I allowed the hit to surface; anything for him to initiate contact with me instead of the reverse.

My head snapped left as his fist touched right; a painful click as his delicate hands snapped against my solid cheek bones.

"Home! Home is where the heart is!"

I held my hands over my face as his arm drew back for a second hit; and boldly replied; "then forgive me for thinking it would be where we fell in love!"

His hand froze in motion, but his face did not falter. He lowered it to his side and made himself rise to stand as close to my face as possible. It was menacing; having such piercing eyes and blindingly clear skin so close to my own. It dimmed me I was sure; even though I possess more colour in me he must still shine and catch eyes far easier.

"Shut up, Naruto, and don't play that card."

His voice was menacingly slow; and it begged for me to test it. The gift in my hands dropped to my side as I threw my arms around his slender waist; drawing him against me. He called out in frustration and my hands upon him; but little protest was voiced as my eyes met his own; I forced bravery to show in them; masking my nerves that shook my hands easily if I ceased tensing them in his shirt.

"What? The 'I love you' card?"

He growled, teeth showing like a rabid animal. It was so frenzied; just as I hoped.

"Yes."

"Well guess what, bastard-" I tried to diffuse tension, stating familiar nick names in the hope of achieving something that would make his eyes burn me like ice less; like dry, cold frozen water was scraping down my cheeks. I have felt knifes on my cheeks; a prank as I grew into six by some elder boys in which they carved the whiskers of a fox onto my face in three lines on each cheek. "-I love you, and I know you love me too. You told me when we were twelve; frolicking in your mother's flowers and holding hands, tell me you don't love me," I challenged, and then my hunger for him grew; "go on, tell me."

"Make me."

x x x 

He knew what he challenged; I could see it in his orbs. It was fantastic; to know he too yearned for me. No words were exchanged as our tender rose-lips met, and I felt it; the igniting fire as we wrestled; all tongue, mouth and teeth as yearning and keening erupted from our throats. It was beautiful; far less angry than I pictured our encounter. I kicked him over, leg by leg, to the creaking bed. It swayed with us as we landed; and then I felt the gnashing of violent and desperate teeth against my tongue and lips. His hands found purchase in my hair and I groaned as sensitive strings were pulled.

My skin tore as his teeth ripped me open; by blood oozing into his mouth as he sucked eagerly. The tinting of syrupy agony in my mouth fuelled me; such anger we felt to unite our bodies; it was as passionate as my thoughts of him at night, as we lay close enough to touch, but never touching. The tint of pain added to my yearning to be one with him; and to drag him into that dark room of the doll's house with me, so we may fight the game playing children together.

I rocked against him like a dog; my need growing with my body against his spreading thighs. So wanton! He resists me for so long and spreads so easily, opening to me and allowing me to feast upon his most vulnerable areas! They have never been touched, I know, I have been with him for as long as the sunrise to sunset; waking to sleeping, breakfast to dinner; he could not have had guests.

I latched onto collars, jaws, a neck, a nipple; anything, tasting the salted skin through his fabric. Soon we undressed; hardly carful or sensually like I planned. He did not put on a show for me; if I had blinked I would have missed it, the space between him fully clothed and then under the covers waiting for me, his foot tapping against the mattress.

I allowed a grin to pass as I thought of what I was achieving; it was so easy, yet hard; since It had taken me our entire journey to reach this far. After his brother died from an illness unknown I found he disliked my touch –like I was contagious, and ironic statement since Itachi's disease was neither contagious nor infecting me- and soon the world of his family had become too much. Now looking at him, I can see that I was always close enough to reach out and take what I wanted it I had persisted.

But, I had always persisted.

As always, I was the labourer and he was the noble; commanding me with minimal effort. But now, looking upon his skinny frame as he shuddered under me; trying to conceal his shaking lust from my eyes because his pride did not allow me to see him in such a state, I knew I was the one who would be in control.

The night moved with us; the clouds thin and light as we called and growled like animals. It was too easy; bringing him down into the depths of pleasure with me. I can feel him around me; gripping me tightly with hands and passage. He clings to me as I move; I struggle, his grip tight on and around me as I brace my feet on the end of the bed; my present of a silk sash tying him to the beach-wood. Its blood-red colour neon and glossy in the dim moonlight shining through the curtains we did not close a few hours ago. He moaned in appreciation when I first showed him my gift (dragging up his flawed chest and wrapping it around his arms- a gift for a noble, a gift for a lover); I had hoped he would have seen it in other situations, but it was fetched in his state of near exhaustion with my ever-present stamina destroying his stoic and contained composure for the hours we moved together; I felt the restrained feelings inside of me for hours and could not stop my onslaught of desire erupting into him.

He too exploded with the feelings we had not allowed through our skin, the pure agony of it all flowing through his body and onto mine in a mess. And, as we drifted to sleep, bodies still joined (in laziness), I heard the single whisper of a man admitting defeat.

" _Moron…_ "

The spoils of the French must have aided me; I pondered as we walked across the dry path of the farmland. The strawberries in my belly, wine on my lips, French coins in my pocket and French silk on my lovers wrists (which he now wears around his shoulders- as a sash should be). I could not touch him as he walked, or he would push me and punch me –as always- but I can, at least, hear him call out for me as we rock together; and while he drifts to sleep and whispers the things I love to hear in a drunken voice laced with sex and fulfilled desire.

He is so remarkable; as he sways even with his aching body, like a feline stalking or a beautiful woman courting; it is so easy to become lost as I had when I was only a child of twelve. When he walked the same walk, perhaps clumsier with young age, and presented me a glass of water and a vine of red grapes. It may be the spoils of the French, but it could be the obvious memory I have failed to connect; until we pranced through the grape fields we now inhabit.

I stole a few, as we walked and when his eyes were turned, but it was more satisfactory when he caught me.

I pondered upon his first words to me as I ripped weeds away from his mother's sprouting sakura tree (what would be a tree now, but was only to my ankle then); as he presented the cool refreshment, although he had not needed to, and offered me a vine of circular juice packets, red and succulent.

He smirked as he saw me snatch another grape from the vine we passed; eyes bright with mirth I only saw on occasions. It was wonderful; such humour in his black jewels. Sasuke turned his head and repeated the very first words his lips and throat formed for me;

"Grown in France."

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted: 25/06/2012 (barely, posted 8 mins before midnight)  
> on FF.net as a gift to a user Raeofshock.


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